At the Solstice I will Wait for Dawn
by trekkiesdeductions
Summary: Joanna "john" watson meets sherlock holmes, rated M for strict language, violence and trigger themes.


TrekkiesDeductions Presents:

At the Solstice I Shall Wait for Dawn

_Disclaimer: We do not own sherlock, we just love the series so much. We know of the abundance of people with female john and male sherlock fics, and we decided to add our own to here, however we shall not copy, etc anyone's fictions. Also please note that this is rated M, and some trigger warnings and gore and… stuff will be in here. Check the profile page for character bios and other quirky things about us :)_

Part Ⅰ: Dawn

~Preface~

By Leonard Nimoy from A Lifetime in Love

_Will I think of you?_

_Only at sunrise Which is God's beginning._

_For you were there At the beginning of me._

_When I came alive And discovered my place_

_My worth The beauty of earth_

_And the miracle of daybreak Once again_

_And the richness of mornings To come Only in the morning_

_Each time The darkness of past Is chased By the light of now Will I think of you...Only then._

_Only at night Where the silence And the blackness Is touched occasionally By a lonely cat_

_Or suspicious puppy_

_A passing plane Red eye winking To the stars Who refuse to be seduced_

_When I hear Your whispered love In the tree rustle_

_When I feel your secret hand_

_Exploring me Drifting across my skin To rest in Friendly Harbor_

_And my mind tells me I am alone._

_But my heart knows better...Only then Will I think of you._

* * *

The cold night chill was abundant in London at this time of year, the rain a torrential reminder for the people that it was supposed to be bloody cold and humid and wet seep into everything. Yet, the people of London were for a big surprise as in one side of town, the world's only consulting detective was brooding in the rooms of 221b Baker Street, thinking... Sherlock Holmes couldn't solve this without an assistant before Anderson literally left him to sneer at the incompetence of the British police.

At the other hand, an ex-army doctor was regretting not dying in the war she had just returned from, and also her therapist.

This is fucking insane. A blank computer screen glared at the woman, a blog, to be precise. She was of an average height, with shoulder length dirty blonde hair dyed like an Irish woman's, red at the ends. Her hazel eyes were bloodshot from the lack of sleep, dark circles were also present... a name looked back at her like demon sent to torture her or something.

Dr. Joanna "John" Hamish Watson

The honorably discharged doctor from Afghanistan, still could feel that bloody desert heat from hell on her skin, gunshot wound to the left shoulder, a limp leg that she still used a fucking cane for, and a throbbing back injury that kept her awake most nights than not.

This idiotic shrink says that writing in a blog would help? Nothing helps PTSD and a wounded veteran with no money, no social life whatsoever, and an alcoholic sister named Harriet that left her husband. John fumed her excuse for a sister and waited for dawn.

John went for a run, more like a cane hobbled walk around the park to clear her head on days when she felt like absolute shit. John had showered for once, braiding her hair and putting it all up, as she loathed it down for it got in the way most of the time. She decided on ripped skinny jeans and her really comfortable combat boots given to her by her fellow soldiers when she was discharged. They were jet black, a small heel, yet john could still run and fight in them if she had to. One of its perks is the fact that a small throwing knife could fit undetected in each heel, and she was, is, still quite deadly with them. John also tries to look presentable in case she meets someone who happens to know her, so she was wearing a white long sleeved dress shirt, sleeves rolled up exposing her forearms, and a specked grey v-neck sweatshirt, and over that, John had decided of bringing her black leather jacket with the hidden pockets.

It had been a good idea to bring her cane for her leg was aching and her back felt like it was on fire. It didn't help that she couldn't find the bloody painkillers, so she has noticeably been limping throughout the park, grumbling in this damn predicament, John didn't notice her name being called as she passed a portly woman named Michelle.

"John!" The woman had stood up when she realized the troubled doctor was within her vicinity.

John turned around as gracefully as she could, internally cursing her back and leg. Her hazel eyes lit up in recognition as she remembered that the two had worked together at Barts.

"Michelle!" The women shook hands. Awkwardly, they started a conversation.

"Still at Barts?"

"Yep," Michelle laughed, "I teach the bloody young things. Just like what we were, little cackling shits."

John looked at the pavement in shame. "I'm not exactly the same John Watson."

"I know. Heard that you were abroad being shot at and saving peoples asses."

"I was in Afghanistan." Silence as Michelle looked at her regarding John's appearance.

"Want a drink, I'll pay."

Sometime later, John was sitting on a bench next to her college friend with a green tea in hand. Their conversation continued as Michelle rambled on.

"- I know it's hard to afford London, especially on an Army Pension."

"I won't go to Harriet." John was adamant on that account.

"What about a flat share, I mean, if you say that nobody will ever share one with the likes of you, then you're the second person I've said that to today."

"Lets go meet him." Michelle stood up, looking at John's incredulous expression.

"A man?"

"He's not... Ordinary, thats for sure."

"Fine, but you owe me."

John and Michelle left the serenity of the park for the dismal depression of the morgue.


End file.
